


You Are (Not) Worth It

by MerlinOnAMountain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bolton Betrayal In Robert's Rebellion, Domeric is a puppy, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lyanna Stark Lives, Rarepair, Robert Wins, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinOnAMountain/pseuds/MerlinOnAMountain
Summary: The terms are simple enough. Domeric is to take the soiled Lady Lyanna Stark as wife and keep his head for his effort.AU: Roose Bolton remained loyal to House Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion. Domeric Bolton is spared and Lyanna lives.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Domeric Bolton/Lyanna Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (past)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	You Are (Not) Worth It

DOMERIC

Domeric rides for Winterfell from the Rills with half a dozen Ryswell men dressed in Bolton colors. Lord Stark is not there to greet him at the gates because that is not a courtesy extended to the sons of traitors. Instead, the castellan welcomes him to the keep and takes him to Lord Stark’s solar.

With scant greetings, Domeric gets down to business. He does not know how the whole thing came to be, but he does know that he has Lady Catelyn Stark and his Ryswell handlers to thank for it, because Ned Stark is obviously not elated to hand over his sister, soiled as she may be, to the Lord of Dreadfort.

The terms are simple enough. Domeric is to take Lady Lyanna Stark as wife and keep his head for his effort. Stark hands will rebuilt what Stark swords had torn down and Domeric and his bride will return to Dreadfort. She is already twenty, five years his elder, but the Winterfell maester assured him of her fertility.

Even if the lady is barren, Domeric would have no complaints. House Bolton has been a plague in the North for far too long and he’ll gladly take it to his grave.

_The two most hated people in the North joined in wedlock, Lord and Lady of the most hated keep in the North._ Why, Domeric could almost smile.

* * *

There’s nothing left of the lively girl Domeric had been infatuated in his boyhood, Lyanna Stark before him now was a shadow of her former self. He finds her sewing in the beautiful glass garden, her hair had been unruly before, but now it looks frayed. She looks up when she hears his footsteps.

“My lady,” He greets uncertainly.

“My lord,” she returns quietly, setting her fabrics and needle aside. Domeric does not dare to look at what she’d been sewing.

_Dom, she used to call me. And Bolton, when I got on her nerves._

But that was half a decade past and much has transpired in the past five years, especially to Lyanna, so it’s entirely possible that she might simply not recognize - or has forgotten - her childhood riding companion.

“I am Domeric,” he says uncertainly. “Of House Bolton,” he adds after a beat.

Something other than sorrow, perhaps amusement, sparks in Lyanna’s grey eyes before being drowned once again. “I know who you are, Lord Bolton.”

“Oh,” Domeric says because he had nothing else to say. It doesn’t feel right to wed a woman so deep in mourning even after two years. Maybe he shouldn’t have approached Lyanna so carelessly when she surely wants nothing better than to be alone.

“Sit with me, Lord Bolton,” Lyanna invites just as he decides to leave, “I’m told you love horses.”

That he does. Horses are the most noblest of beasts. While men will ruin themselves with avarice, while wolves and dragons will devastate one another in their hubris, a horse is perfectly content with being saddled to save its hide.

* * *

The courting period is a fortnight but by the third day, Domeric has run of out things to talk about. It’s cowardly but he can no longer bear spend time with his despondent betrothed, so he turns on his heels when he sees Lyanna sitting at her usual spot in the glass gardens.  
  
Winterfell is an immense castle and before long, Domeric is lost on his way to the stables. In the distance, he spies the broken head of a stone tower and decides to make for it.  
  
The winding stairs of the tower have fallen apart in a couple of places but Domeric leaps across since he’s already come this far. Strong winds enter through the collapsed walls of the top most wall and spiral down the stairs, making the climb more difficult.  
  
Winterfell is not a bustling town by any means but from this high up, Domeric can hear nothing but the wind whistling. The collapsed wall of the topmost room calls to mind the Moon Doors of the Eerie. He sits right on the edge and let's his legs hang out. He spots the stable, the rookery, the great keep and the servant quarters, and commits their positions and pathways to memory.  
  
Before long, Domeric starts humming a tune. He remembers hearing it on Mother's lips, although he does not remember her face too well, her having died when he was only seven. Uncle Rodrik once said Domeric would look just like Bethany in a dress. Domeric's Ryswell cousins had taken it upon themselves to verify their father's statement by forcing Domeric into a milkmaid's rags. That is not the worst thing they had done to him, not even close, but the memory comes to mind whenever Domeric thinks of Mother, or anything even tangentially related to her.

  
The sound of footsteps pull him out of his dark thoughts.  
  
"This is no place for a lord to be," Lyanna says from behind him, "You could catch a cold, or fall."  
  
  
"Such a shame it would be," Domeric replies without thinking or turning back.  
  
Lyanna sits down beside him on the edge and -as always - there’s a hoop and needle in her hands.  
  
"Bad time?" She asks, facing straight ahead.  
  
"It's alright," Domeric says, "Misery loves company."  
  
That earns him a rueful laugh. "What do you know of _misery_ , Bolton?"  
  
Her voice is tinged in some brand of anger and it gets a rise out of Domeric despite his passive nature. He's used to being demeaned in a lot of aspects but never has anyone doubted his sorrow.

“Must be _heartbreaking_ ,” Domeric says evenly, his tone sounding much like the one Father used, emotionless and scathing at the same time, “To have a family who loved you enough to declare war.”  
  


“ _Love?_ ” Lyanna laughs, “Do you think my father loved me when Aerys had him cooked in his armor? Do you reckon Brandon believed I was worth it when he strangled himself?”

He hears her exhale loudly. “I am not even worth the frown on Princess Elia’s temple that day in Harrenhal,” she says bitterly.

Domeric sneaks a peek at his betrothed. Her jaws are clenched and eyes are screwed shut. She’s taking long, deep breaths to regain mastery over her emotions. _Anger is most becoming on her fae-like face_ , Domeric decides _, wrath suits her far more than sorrow._ But he’s immediately ashamed of himself for thinking so little of Lyanna’s suffering when he had been indignant mere moments ago because she disregarded his own.

  
"At least you had a happy childhood, Stark," Domeric says with a sigh, still angry but less so, “And what happened to you..."  
  
"Is my fault," Lyanna finished.

  
_Of course it is. To run away with a married man, start a war and not even have the decency to die when so many have died for your sake._

It must be the tainted blood in him that makes Domeric measures his woes against Lady Lyanna. He shakes his head to cast away his uncharitable thoughts, "Forgive me, my lady. That was not proper of me to speak so."  
  
That was not the right thing to say either, because Lyanna comes to her senses and withdraws into herself once again.  
  
"I apologize as well, my lord," she says meekly and turns her attention to her embroidery.

* * *

  
The next two day, they do not talk. Domeric busies himself grooming horses in the stable and sees little of Lyanna except in passing. Mostly she’s in the garden, sometimes in the nursery with her nephews Robb and Jon, and once or twice, she even steps into the stables, prompting Domeric to turn tail and flee.  
  
Aunt Barbrey arrives a day before the wedding and immediately takes Domeric to task about his negligence towards his betrothed. She doesn't understand what's there to be sad about when Domeric is getting to wed his childhood fancy even after everything.  
  
Domeric recalls that Barbrey Ryswell had a Stark fancy of her own and then a Dustin husband and she blamed Lyanna Stark for taking them both away from her. Now, she will not even stay in the same room as Lyanna, let alone look into her eyes, so Barbrey will not understand that Brandon Stark's death has spared her from the pure agony and helplessness Domeric feels every time his eyes find Lyanna’s.  
  
After the uncomfortable conversation, Domeric seeks to clear his mind. He heads for the Broken Tower again; keenly aware of what Aunt Barbrey had told him.

  
_Tower of Joy, Broken Tower; he wonders if there's a connection._  
  
Lyanna is there - he learned from the servants that she often is - and Domeric turns to leave.  
  
"My lord," she says softly, barely audible over the howling wind, "Sit with me."  
  
Up on that broken tower, they sit in silence. Lyanna brings her needlework and Domeric has no choice but to see what patterns she's making. He almost sags with relief when he sees only wolves on her fabric; wolves upon wolves upon wolves upon wolves.  
  
"Why do you sew so much?" Domeric stutters out his question when the silence becomes unbearable.  
  
Lyanna does not hear him, so lost she is in her own mind. He opens his mouth to repeat the question, hesitates and then looks away towards the woods. He spots a derelict keep in the woods and starts counting the pillars.  
  
"Before he marked me as a lost cause, Father used to insist that I learn embroidery and all the other ladylike pursuits," Lyanna replies after a long moment, staring into the distance, "Should have listened to Father."  
  
Once a hound in Dreadfort tasted too much human blood which turned it rabid. Father had brought out Domeric and Ramsey to watch the dog being put down.  
_  
'Soft boy,' Father had sneered when Domeric began to cry, 'Feels even for a mongrel.'  
_  
And now that soft boy was expected to wed Lyanna Stark, this living embodiment of pain and agony. Domeric is well used to own circumstances; there are a thousand things he can tell himself to make it bearable _: that it is justice, that it is his due for being born a Bolton, for having traitor blood in his veins, that he's still better off than countless smallfolk who must choose which of their children live and which starve come winter.  
_  
But what of Lyanna's pain? What does one do with pain that is not his own, so much worse than his own?  
  


* * *

  
  
The weirwood tree they're wed before has an ugly, grimacing face but Domeric still prefers it to the crestfallen face of his bride standing before it.  
  
They say their vows, each more farcical than the last. And there's a final pledge and a kiss.

_Whoever thought up the procedure for weddings must have had quite a sense of humor._  
  
Lyanna shivers when he removes her Stark cloak and keeps shaking even he cloaks her in Bolton colors. Her tremors persist as they make their way back to the keep while the procession looks on with judging eyes, perhaps praying for the earth to part beneath the newlyweds' feet and swallow them whole.  
  
One set of eyes is particularly fierce and their gaze prickles on the skin of his neck. Domeric stops abruptly midstep to find them again but to no avail.  
  


* * *

  
  
Domeric sees those eyes again; they belong to Rickard Karstark, as does the dagger Lyanna's pale throat. Her grey eyes are grimmer but otherwise, she's impassive, despondent.  
  
There's a commotion in the hall and the guests scramble away from the Lord of Karhold. There are also a handful of men who are blocking the Stark guards from coming any closer; Karstark men or perhaps men simply eager for some bloodshed.  
  
Ned Stark unsheathes Ice buts he's too far and Karstark will open his sister's throat from ear to ear before Stark can get close. Around the hall, Stark men outnumber Karstark's and some are even close enough to perhaps grab onto Karstark and pry him away. Still, the hall is dormant, content in watching. The malice of the North manifests itself not through action but through inaction.

The Lord of Karhold bothers with no exposition, no justification. He’s neither drunk nor enraged when he addresses the Lord of Winterfell.

"Ned!" Karstark declares coldly, looking directly at the Lord of Winterfell, "My quarrel is not with you. All I want is that Bolton swine!" Karstark then turns to said swine, "Bastard! You are to follow me slowly and peaceably."  
  
Domeric knows that if he does, he will die. But that is still easier than living with the weight of yet one more soul on his conscience. Domeric puts down his goblet and walks over slowly to Karstark. His own face must look quite a piece of work because Karstark looks pleased.

  
Karstark walks backwards dragging the limp Lyanna with him and Domeric follows as ordered. He leads them into the godswood as servants clear out of the way and guards make wagers on the outcome. Domeric can only guess how far this plot goes and which of the Winterfell staff are in on it. Perhaps the Lady of Winterfell herself is one of the conspirators; having decided a dead Lyanna is even better than an out-of-sight one.  
  
One thing’s for sure though, Karstark is calm, too calm. This is not an impulse; the man had planned this all out with murder on his mind. They walk through the godswood, cross a ruined perimeter wall and then they're in the wolfswood, in the wilderness. Still they keep walking.  
  
"Let her go," Domeric says calmly once Karstark stops.  
  
"Why would I?" Karstark spits and tightens his fist around the dagger, drawing a drop of blood on Lyanna's pale neck, "Rickard would have smothered this bitch in the cradle if he'd only known."  
  
"Because she's Stark," Domeric replies simply, "And the North remembers."  
  
Rickard Karstark considers it for a moment and then, concedes. The Northman shoves Lyanna to the side and kicks her stomach when she's hunched over on all fours. She is flung away like a ragdoll and it takes several moments for her to get back on her knees.  
  
There is blood on her white dress, blood on her pale face. But her eyes are as calm as ever when she looks towards Domeric.  
  
"Go," Domeric orders desperately, " _Run_."  
  
Lyanna blinks once, twice and then nods. Karstark walks towards him slowly, with murderous intent but Domeric is content to see Lyanna's form disappear into the thicket.  
  
"Last words?"  
  
"May I have a sword to defend myself?" Domeric japes.  
  
Karstark laughs, he laughs darkly. "Did your father give my son a sword?"  
  
Harrion Karstark was only four during the surprise sack of Karhold by Bolton forces at the start of the war. No sword could have saved him from Roose.  
  
"Fair enough," Domeric shrugs.  
  
There is pain, Domeric notes, when Karstark plunges his dagger into his guts but it doesn't feel too bad, even practice swords hurt more than this! If he knew death was this easy, he'd have embraced it long ago.  
  
Rickard takes his sweet time pulling out dagger, watching on with a grim smile as blood turns Domeric's pink doublet crimson. Then Karstark stabbed into him again and made to do it a third time, but it never came.  
  
Instead, the large man dropped his dagger and fell to his knees before Domeric. And behind him, Lyanna Stark stands proud with rocks in her hand. Her face flushed with color and eyes full of emotion. Her pretty little mouth heaving deep breathes in and out after hard exertion.  
  
She looks like a complete different woman. No, she _is_ a complete different woman. Domeric sees the girl she had been instead of the pale shade she has now become.  
  
If the previous Lyanna was worth dying for, this new one is certainly worth living for. Domeric picks up the dagger just as Karstark begins to stir. With a gentle hand, he eases the dagger into one of Karstark's eyes as life flickers out from the other. Karstark slumps forwards just as Domeric's legs give out. He doesn't even have the strength to decide where he'd fall, so his body doubles over the fresh corpse of Rickard Karstark. Cold hands pull him off and Domeric fights too keep his eyes open. If he sleeps now, he'd sleep forever.  
  
"Why did you come back?" Domeric asks.  
  
"Why did you?" Lyanna asked in turn. There’s a shrill tremor in her voice as Domeric feels her hands trying to unbutton his doublet to get a better look at the stab wounds.

_Because I owe it to Karstark, to the North. Because I've been looking for a good place to die ever since the war. Because I can't live with your blood on my hands._  
  
"Because you are worth it," he says finally and drifts away into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Really went for one of the oldest tropes in the book, fuck me. Also, I tried to make it more introspective and not purely event driven. Not sure how well it worked out.
> 
> Domeric is empathetic, earnest and suicidal.  
> Lyanna is mourning, jaded and also quite suicidal.
> 
> Let's wish them a happy marriage.
> 
> I dunno if this is a oneshot.


End file.
